He's at the table — his ten-thousandth time in that chair. Your first. You get five minutes. He has to answer everything — but he only has to answer exactly what you ask. Ask yes/no questions and he'll burn your clock one word at a time. Ask better questions and he starts confessing.
WIN: flip all 7 confessions · LOSE: the clock, your temper, or both
The chair is pulled out. Five minutes, seven confessions. He wins every second you waste.
A problem well stated is a problem half solved. You just practiced the stating — on him. Now do it where it counts.
If it starts with "should I," he wrote it. Reshape it.
Plan and purpose. That's the whole antidote — marriage, work, all of it.
Most problems aren't about what you know. They're about who you know. A text tonight beats a call someday — the call can be tomorrow.
That was the practice phantom — scripted, maybe fifteen minutes of fight in him. The button above summons the next one up: the AI you already use, same rules, no script, and it presses back. The real one outranks them both — he's already in your week, wearing "thinking it over." That's the fight the practice is for.
I've been listening to Napoleon Hill interrogate the devil on my drives — written 1938, locked away until 2011 — and I keep getting caught mid-sentence: yep, guilty of that. This chair, turned around, is what came of it. Everyone who ever stood up to this thing started small — in a chair exactly like this one.
Washington or Dakota County, Minnesota. Off-market, or straight from the owner — I'm the buyer, not a middleman passing it along. Woodbury, Cottage Grove, Hastings, Stillwater, Eagan, Inver Grove Heights, Lakeville.
If that's you, or you know somebody quietly thinking about selling, I'll lay out your options — all of them, including the ones I don't make a dime on. Nothing to sign, no walkthrough unless you ask.